


Sparks

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M, Tranformers Prime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Come on, let’s go.  You can’t fight a twenty-foot tall robot!”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>And then Derek just gives him this LOOK, like he COULD, and it sends Stiles into a homicidal rage.</i></p><p> </p><p>Life seems to be calming down in Beacon Hills, until Stiles’s jeep gets a mysterious overnight paint job.  Also, it can drive itself, which is not nearly as convenient as you’d think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> For the **twreversebang** , based on [artwork by Deepclaw!](http://i.imgur.com/l06ob.jpg) Takes place at the end of Season 1 but BEFORE Season 2 (S2’s events are either tweaked or pushed back a little.) Scott is pretty happy with Allison, Lydia’s made a splendid recovery, and Stiles may or may not be dating Derek (it depends how they feel that day).
> 
> Thanks to **dollarformyname** for the beta.

Stiles used to think Beacon Hills was pretty boring. That was before the werewolves appeared. Now, Stiles longs for the halcyon days of sitting on the sidelines while his teammates got all the action. (Well, he’d still like to actually _play_ lacrosse, but if he has to choose between warming a bench and chaining his best friend to walls every month, then sitting on his ass doesn’t sound so bad.)

Anyway, with all the strange shapeshifting and murdering that has gone on lately, one would think Stiles would be relieved — nay, even thrilled, to have something so mundane happen. And that would be wrong.

“Are you _serious?_ ” Stiles groans. He makes an exasperated gesture with his arms, even though no one is around to see it. “Aw, come on.”

His jeep, his beloved CJ-5, has been violated. It’s sporting a new grille plate, first of all. Stiles squints at it, cocking his head for a better look. The plate is shaped like some sort of robotic head. He might admit it’s actually quite detailed, if Stiles were the type of man to go about praising vandalism. He’s not, though, so screw the stupid robot face.

All things considered, the grille plate isn’t that bad. It’s definitely not the worst part. No, the worst part is the new paint job. Stiles’s doors have been adorned with the same design, twin silver robot heads shimmering in the morning sun. They look like insignias for a video game, or futuristic war paint.

They look like a couple grand, that’s what they look like.

He whips out his phone and hits number three, fuming. He vows that after this call, he will change his settings. Scott is no longer worthy of being listed after Dad; hell, Scott is no longer worthy of being in Stiles’s _top ten._

“‘Ello?” Scott sounds half in the bag, even though it’s almost ten o’clock. He’s probably just exhausted from all the painting he did last night.

“Not cool, dude,” Stiles snaps, walking around to tug his driver’s side door open. At least nothing on the inside has been tampered with, and there are no robot faces on his steering wheel.

“What’s not cool?” Scott wants to know, one foot still in dreamland. “Was it the pear dream, again?”

“No! I’m talking about the new design you gave my car. My _jeep_ , Scott.”

There’s some rustling as Scott sits up. “What are you talking about?” He sounds more coherent now.

Stiles gets it then, gets that Scott didn’t actually do this. Why would he? On the other hand, Scott is the only person besides Dad who really knows what the CJ means to him. So he says, “You decorated my car with tiny robots.”

His best friend huffs a quiet, exasperated laugh. “Right. I took time out of being a werewolf with a new girlfriend to paint your jeep.” There’s a pregnant pause while Scott’s words really sink in. “Wait a minute. You mean someone actually _painted_ your jeep?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, mournfully. “Last night, I guess. I come out this morning and it looks like something out of a sci-fi film.”

“Probably some kids,” Scott says, and Stiles can picture him rubbing his face. “I’m real sorry, man. That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, dropping the call. “Yeah, it does.”

***

The CJ-5 is one of the oldest, rattiest, most precious possessions Stiles owns. It’s a model from the early eighties, and his parents had put some work into it over the years. Sure, it’s a little battered and its paint is fading, but it has pretty good insulation for such an old car — and off-roading is a breeze. Not that Stiles goes off-roading much, but the point is, if he _wanted_ to ….

His phone vibrates. _u ok?_ A second later, Scott sends another text. _sure you don’t wanna chill?_

Stiles types out a quick reply. _Sorry dude not tonight._ He’s been kind of ducking Scott since this morning. The day started off on a pretty crappy note, and Stiles just wants to spend the weekend alone. Plus, he sort of feels guilty over giving his best friend grief. Of _course_ Scott would never mess with the CJ. What was he even thinking?

He gives the wheel an angry smack before sliding the gearshift to reverse. Really, he thinks as he pulls out of the convenience store parking, it all comes down to Mom. Mom had left him the jeep, had wanted him to love it — and he does. He loves it to the point where to mess with the CJ is to court death.

Luckily, Dad is working a big case this weekend. Even more fortunately, he left at ass-o’clock and so it’s conceivable that he didn’t even glance twice at Stiles’s car. The casework at this point is mostly logistics and paperwork, but it involves the cops from the next town over, so there are, as Sheriff Stilinski words it, “a helluva lot of signatures required.” He mumbled something about late nights and full weekends yesterday after dinner. That’s fine by Stiles; he wants to put off breaking this to Dad for as long as he can. It’s less about the money and more about how long Stiles will have to drive the jeep as is until he has enough cash to repaint it. He doesn’t want Dad to see one of the last reminders of his wife desecrated.

Damn kids.

“It’s friggin’ ridiculous,” Stiles complains to no one in particular. “Everyone knows you do not mess with someone’s ride. It’s, like, the ultimate screw-you. The ultimate lack of respect. It’s playing dirty.”

The headlights flicker; the lane goes in and out of view. Some of the streetlights on this road are out, so Stiles slows down a little, frowning. It’s dark, and there’s no one behind him.

“Come on,” he says, tapping the dash. “It’s bad enough some kids gave you a facelift. Now you’re gonna bail on me yourself?”

The radio clicks on, feedback screeching through the cab over the sound of the engine. Stiles jumps, one hand flying to cover one ear. It’s so distracting, he almost burns a stop sign, stalling when he slams on the brakes without shifting down.

“What the hell?!” Wincing, he pokes at the radio, but nothing stops the flood of warbling static. He realizes his headlights are still flickering. His car is obviously going absolutely apeshit, so Stiles kills the engine.

The radio goes silent — which is weird, because Stiles hasn’t opened the door. He stares at the dash for a moment, contemplating his next move. What if the vandals didn’t stop with a paint job, and there’s something really wrong? His phone’s on the passenger seat, along with his chips and soda. Maybe he should call Scott or Danny, and ask them to come give him a lift.

The ground rumbles and vibrates. Stiles feels the jeep shake. He swallows. It’s not like small quakes are _unusual_ (he lives in California, America’s Etch-a-Sketch) but something just feels off, and he begins to regret this entire late night snack run. The earth shakes again, and Stiles makes his decision. 

He’s reaching for his phone when the engine turns over. He freezes when the jeep rumbles to life, headlights bright and constant. From where he’s leaning over, Stiles can see that the key hasn’t turned.

He yanks the keys out of the ignition, but the car is still running. “Hey,” he half-laughs. “Okay, very funny.” No, he has no idea to whom he’s speaking. “Hey, c’mon.” He reaches for the wheel, and that’s when the CJ takes matters into its own hands.

You know, so to speak.

Stiles yelps when the car starts rolling. He grabs at the wheel, intending to at least steer it onto the shoulder, but the jeep has other ideas, rounding a corner and heading further away from home.

“Where are you going?” he demands, and then he laughs hysterically because _he is talking to a car._ A car that is _driving itself._

The CJ, for its part, drives stick like a pro. Stiles watches, mesmerized, as the gearshift moves and the wheel turns. He gives himself a shake, then tries to open the door.

It doesn’t budge.

It can’t be locked. He did not lock it, and the CJ doesn’t have electric locks. Stiles sucks in a deep breath, then tries again.

He’s trapped.

“What the hell!” he shouts again, scrambling for his phone. He doesn’t even know who he’s going to call at this point — Scott? Dad? Who’s going to rescue him from a sentient jeep?

Before he can grab his cell, the CJ makes a hard left, sending Stiles crashing into his door. His phone and junk food clatter into the footwell. The ground rumbles again. Stiles doesn’t feel it thanks to the reckless driving, but he can hear the earth groan in protest.

This is officially the worst day ever.

He passes a couple of other cars and pedestrians, but too quickly for anyone to realize it’s him. Moreover, judging from the tremors, everyone’s probably deciding whether or not they need to take earthquake precautions. They certainly aren’t on the lookout for boys trapped in jeeps on autopilot.

At his wit’s end, Stiles tries reasoning with it. “Look, buddy, we can go on a road trip tomorrow if you really want, okay? But right now, it might be a good idea to go home and hole up. What if a serious quake is on the way?”

The car is picking up speed now, leaving Beacon Hills and heading for the woods. Stiles panics, because “off-road” doesn’t mean “through trees.”

Thankfully, the CJ finds the old road, and eventually skids to a stop at the old Hale house. It continues to idle, but the headlights switch off. Stiles swallows. Now what? Why did the jeep bring him here?

“Is this a werewolf thing?” he asks, because these days everything seems to be coming down to werewolves one way or another.

The radio warbles to life again, all screech and static. Stiles shoves his fingers in his ears and honestly, seriously, just wants to go home.

Then, amidst the crackling, he catches two coherent words: _“only … protection.”_

Stiles straightens in his seat, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

Then the headlights snap back on, illuminating Derek.

“GAH!” Stiles cries, leaping further back into his seat.

Derek smirks at him, all cocksure and leather jacketed, but the expression falters when he takes in the situation.

Stiles pushes against the window. “Derek!” he shouts, locking eyes with the werewolf.

He’s not sure if Derek can smell his anxiety from inside the jeep, or if he’s just going on the expression on Stiles’s face. Either way, Derek is moving, racing around to the driver’s side door, rolling his shoulders and Stiles knows the werewolf is going to rip the door right off its hinges.

He tries to, anyway. Unfortunately, the CJ decides to cooperate, opening the door and sending Derek sprawling into the dirt.

“Uh oh,” Stiles says, sitting strangely still even though he’s free to go. “Jeep, seriously, you should not have done that. He’s gonna be pissed.” The radio blips, and Stiles does a double-take, because his car might have just answered him.

Sure enough, Derek picks himself up from the ground, rage incarnate. “What the hell was that?” he demands, marching over to the open door.

“It wasn’t me!” Stiles says. He unbuckles and slides out of the jeep. He’s never been so happy to stand on his own two feet — even if it means being within the vicinity of Derek’s anger.

“You didn’t just open your door in my face?” the werewolf snarls. He looks so flustered, Stiles doesn’t know whether to laugh or kiss him.

So instead, he gets right to the point. “My car is alive.” He gestures to the CJ like it’s a gameshow prize.

Derek just stares at him.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, waving a hand. He ignores the way a muscle in Derek’s jaw works, because he’s only afraid of the werewolf _sometimes_ now. “I’m serious. It drove me here from the store, tried talking to me through the radio, and wait — why are you even here?”

Derek snorts. Stiles can tell it’s to cover up a chuckle. “My scent’s all over this place,” he says. “I came to see if anyone has been poking around.” Then the werewolf is all business, tipping his head back and sniffing the air. He catches something, because he sniffs again, creeping closer to the CJ.

“You got something?” Stiles asks, watching Derek work. He half-expects the car to make a break for it, but it stays still and dark, idling with the door open.

Abruptly, Derek leaps back, growling. He grabs at Stiles, who follows the pull without question. They back away, Stiles peering at the jeep from behind Derek’s shoulder. Derek has wolfed out, fangs bared. The car hasn’t reacted.

“What is it?” Stiles asks. He reaches out tentatively, touching Derek’s arm. “It’s not … look, Derek, it was from my mom.”

Derek looks back at him, already reverting.

The radio warbles again, and Stiles catches more words. _“Trapped … help.”_

“See!” he cries, grabbing Derek’s sleeve like the other man doesn’t have twice as much hearing. “My car’s alive!”

“It’s not alive,” Derek says, inching closer to the jeep. “It’s possessed.”

This brings Stiles up short. “Say what?”

Derek closes the door over, pointing to the robot symbol. “This smells like rosemary, salt, and about a dozen other herbs.”

Stiles blinks, uncomprehending. “Some kids painted those on there last night,” he says dumbly, because this cannot be happening. He hasn’t gotten used to _werewolves_ , yet.

“It’s not paint,” Derek says. He grimaces. “There’s a witch around.”

The jeep goes wild, beeping and blipping in between shots of static. Derek backs away, surprised. Stiles comes closer, piecing it all together.

“You’re not really a jeep, are you?” There’s some more beeping, and Stiles raises his hands. “Okay, how about this? One blip for yes, two for no, and we’ll go from there?”

One blip.

Stiles finds himself smiling. “Okay. So you’re not really a jeep.” One blip. “You’re … stuck in the jeep?” Another blip. “So a, uh, a witch cast a spell on you, trapping you in my car?” Yet another blip. If possible, it even sounds excited.

Derek is fidgeting beside him. “This isn’t good.”

Stiles huffs, “Yeah, you think? Jeez, _witches_ now?” The car warbles, sounding disappointed. “I hear ya, buddy.” He ignores Derek’s sidelong glance. “Can I call you CJ?” Blip.

“Stiles,” Derek says.

“What? I can’t call him ‘hey, car.’ Oh, wait, CJ, are you a boy?” Blip. “Are you a human?” Two blips. Stiles closes his eyes briefly, because _seriously._ “Are you a, a robot?” Blip. “All right, now what about kidnapping me?” Two rapid blips. Stiles frowns. “So if you weren’t kidnapping me, why were you so anxious to get out of town? Were you … trying to get away?” Blip! “You were protecting me from something?” Blip! “From what?” he asks, then winces. “Sorry, habit.”

The radio spits and sputters some more. Gradually, more words escape. Stiles catches _break_ , _deception_ , and _home._ He exchanges glances with Derek.

The werewolf is shaking his head. “What’s a Decepticon?”

Stiles makes a face. “I thought he said ‘deception.’” The ground shakes again, this time with enough force to rattle Stiles off his feet. Derek saves him from falling flat on his face. “But I’m willing to bet that’s a Decepticon,” he deadpans into Derek’s jacket.

CJ is beeping urgently, and both doors swing wide open. Stiles looks over his shoulder, gaping at the blue searchlight sweeping through the trees.

Derek sniffs the air. “Stiles.” He’s all business, ready for battle.

Then Stiles sees the shape towering amongst the trees. It’s huge, shrouded in shadow, but moving with slow precision. Each time it inches forward, it sends a tremor through the earth.

“Oh, my god,” Stiles breathes. “You’re a good robot, and that’s a bad robot. We gotta un-curse you so you can get rid of the bad robot.”

The car blips, eager and insistent. Derek gives Stiles a look. “Really? Is this what you do with your free time? Concoct lavish scenarios and hoard them, so you can bring them out at times like this?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and gestures madly to the advancing robot that is going to spot them sooner or later. “Do you want to waste time arguing about this _now?_ ”

“You just pieced together a robot war,” Derek snarks back. “Who even does that?”

CJ blips again, and Stiles is positive he’s the good robot — because anyone else would have left him and Derek behind by now. “Come on, let’s go. You can’t fight a twenty-foot tall robot!”

And then Derek just gives him this _look_ , like he _could_ , and it sends Stiles into a homicidal rage.

“ _Get in the car,_ ” he snarls at the werewolf.

Mercifully, that’s where the argument ends. Stiles and Derek pile into CJ, and the jeep takes off before they’re spotted.

***

CJ knows where he’s going, even if his memory is a little jumbled. They have to drive quietly, so as not to attract the Decepticon’s attention. Stiles winces every time they roll over particularly nasty underbrush. CJ’s capable of off-roading, but this is ridiculous.

Derek is taking being absconded pretty well. He looks genuinely amazed at CJ’s driving and rudimentary communication skills.

Stiles has considered calling Scott for the billionth time, but what would he say at this point? _“Hi, sorry to bug you, just wanted to say I’m on the run from a giant robot. Don’t worry, I’ve got my sort-of boyfriend and CJ with me. CJ’s my car, by the way. Who is possessed by another giant robot. Anyway, we’re off to find a witch. Don’t come after me, because babysitting one stupid wolf is work enough.”_

Yeah, no.

So, in between looking out the windows for giant robots or other vehicles, Stiles has been grilling CJ. It’s pretty cool, until he asks, “So, is this like in the movies, where there’s an intergalactic war going on somewhere?” and CJ blips once for yes.

“Wow,” Derek says.

Stiles feels sick. “Yeah.”

They hear the ground rumble in the distance, but thankfully they’re far enough away that the tremors die before reaching them.

“How is that thing tracking us?” Derek wonders, peering out his window.

“Who knows?” Stiles says. He pats CJ’s dash. “If CJ is stuck in this form, maybe it wants to take him out. Pick him off while he’s weak. No offense, CJ.”

The radio warbles amicably.

Derek huffs a laugh. “I can’t believe you just learned how to speak Robot Radio.”

Stiles shrugs. “It was that or stand around while you tried gnawing on a giant metal leg.”

The werewolf gives him a withering look. “Just take the compliment for what it is.”

Stiles barely resists the urge to pat his stubbled cheek. Derek would probably chew his arm off. “Thank you,” he says instead, beaming an over-the-top smile.

Derek mutters something that is probably better left unheard, but it’s lost over CJ’s agitated beeping. The radio starts emitting static again, with _“witch, curse”_ making intermittent appearances.

They look out the windshield, squinting in the darkness. The forest outside Beacon Hills stretch on for miles, and CJ has taken them north to what appears to be an honest-to-god hovel in the woods.

“Give it up for Hansel and Gretel,” Stiles says, climbing out of the car. He pats the hood. “We’ll figure this out, buddy.”

The radio blips happily, and then CJ turns on his high beams, illuminating the cabin. It’s downright dilapidated and rustic, with missing shingles and creaky-looking foundation.

“I can see why this witch doesn’t have neighbors,” Stiles quips. “Look at this dump.”

Derek is glaring at the cabin. “Someone’s home.”

Sure enough, the owner wants to know why a jeep has pulled up in the middle of the night. The door bangs open and out comes a young man with floppy hair, eyeliner, and more cranium accessories than you can shake a stick at. Great, it’s a witch from Urban Outfitters. He probably thinks witchcraft and Wicca are the same thing, writing spells on his Macbook while he sips Fair Trade tea.

“What do you want?” the witch demands from his porch.

In response, CJ flickers his headlights. Stiles squares his shoulders and says, “You messed with a friend of mine. And my jeep.” Derek doesn’t say anything, hulking in the background like a bodyguard, ready to strike.

The witch’s eyes widen when he registers what kind of car is parked outside his house. “How did …?” He shakes his head, jewelry glinting in the spotlights. “How did you know?”

Stiles takes a step closer, stopping when the witch raises a hand. “Why did you do it?”

“What, you wanted something as powerful and dangerous as that running around unchecked?” The witch’s face twists in distaste. “You should be happy I saw it land here.” He lifts his chin. “I don’t know how it convinced you to help it, but you’re better off drowning that hunk of junk in the river.”

Stiles bites his lip, quivering with anger. “It’s not a hunk of junk,” he manages through gritted teeth. “Change him back.” Behind him, CJ beeps in agreement.

The witch doesn’t budge. “I don’t know how you managed to take control of that car,” he says to CJ, “but I’m not setting you free. For such a strong presence in our world, you must be a _very_ angry spirit.”

“Spirit?” Stiles echoes, even as CJ gives two quick blips. “Man, do you even know what you’re playing with here? Tell me the truth: this is your clubhouse or something, right?”

“ _Clubhouse?_ ” the witch asks, lips curling back into a sneer.

“I don’t care what you do in your spare time,” Stiles says. “But this jeep means a lot to me, and what you did was _not cool._ Change it back. Set CJ free.”

“Are you going to make me?” the witch goads, folding his arms. “I could turn you into a toad before you reached me.”

CJ’s lights flick off, then on — and Derek is there, grabbing the witch from behind. The boy squawks, but Derek keeps him still, claws extending until they are brushing his throat like a lover’s deadly caress.

“What about me?” the werewolf asks, baring his fangs. “Your spells faster than this?”

The witch is frozen, staring at Stiles with eyes as wide as saucers. “He’ll do it,” Stiles confirms. “He’s crazy.”

He watches Derek apply just a bit of pressure, and the witch squeaks. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

All things considered, the spell is an easy one to break. The witch, whose name turns out to be Randall, just sprinkles some herbs in a circle and chants a few words under Derek’s watchful eyes, ears, and nose. Thunder rolls and lightning crackles, and Stiles hopes the Decepticon can’t tell the difference between real and magicked weather.

Then CJ is free, bright white spark bursting from his jeep and bathing everyone in its brilliance. Stiles can feel the warmth, opens himself to CJ, and he _knows._

Autobots, Decepticons, and sparks. A routine mission gone off course. CJ crash landing not far from Randall’s cabin. CJ’s spark — soul — being forced into Stiles’s jeep instead of being able to make a replication for himself. Stiles understands it all now.

 _“The spell banished me,”_ CJ says, still speaking through the radio. His voice is youthful, but there is sincerity underneath the cockiness. _“It forced me to go to ground, so I hid in your jeep. I was looking for a way to go unnoticed. I didn’t realize I’d intruded on something so precious to you.”_

Stiles opens his eyes. The robot heads — Autobot symbols — on the doors are gone, but the grille plate is still in place. “No,” he says. “You’re awesome. You’re … you saved me.”

 _“And you saved me.”_ The doors swing open, inviting. _“I’ll take you home before I leave.”_

Stiles glances at Derek. “Leave?”

CJ sounds regretful. _“I’ll lure the Decepticon off this planet. Back to the war.”_

“Oh,” Stiles says, feeling somber.

A tremor runs beneath them. So much for the Decepticon not noticing anything.

“Let’s go,” Derek says, climbing into the jeep.

“Right.” Stiles looks back at Randall. “I’d go home if I were you. Maybe get drunk and pretend this never happened.”

Randall watches them drive away, looking spooked. Stiles can only hope they scared the invasive witchcraft right out of him. Otherwise, he’ll have to come back. Maybe with Scott and Allison.

***

CJ drives them to the edge of the forest. _“You can find the road back easily from here.”_

Stiles bites his lip, staring at the dash. “And you?”

_“My pod is just over there. Once my systems are back online, I’ll be able to hide someplace far from civilization and send out a distress signal. I’ll make sure the Decepticon follows.”_

“Sounds dangerous,” Stiles says, feeling twisted up and powerless.

 _“It’s war,”_ CJ says simply.

There’s a moment of silence. Derek clears his throat, reminding them that there _is_ a rogue enemy robot on the loose.

_“You might want to step out for this.”_

Derek climbs out first, but Stiles lingers. “It was cool getting to know you,” he says. “I hope you get home soon.”

 _“I will,”_ CJ promises. _“Thank you for your help.”_

“Anytime.” Stiles means it.

They give CJ a wide berth, but it turns out to be unnecessary. CJ’s spark crackles and pops when it leaves the jeep, but aside from that it’s uneventful. They watch as the spark sails through the air like a tiny comet, disappearing into the distant trees.

Moments later, they hear the low groan of protesting metal. In the moonlight, they watch CJ’s robotic skeleton rise from the ground. He even waves before turning to weave through the forest.

Stiles waves back, knowing that once CJ is far enough away, he will signal the Decepticon. That went remarkably well, considering what their lives have been like lately. He shakes his head. Better not to think about it; looking gift horses in the mouth, and all that. Instead, he wonders what kind of car CJ will pick next.

Derek is cocking his head, listening to things Stiles cannot hear. “Think he’ll be okay? With his robot war?”

Stiles shrugs. “That’s bigger than us. Like, literally. They are all seriously larger than us.”

His keys are still in the ignition. The engine turns over like a dream.

***

He drives Derek back to his old house, pulling up to the door. Stiles turns to face him, feeling like this was one of the most awkward dates in history. Giant robots, witchcraft, and all.

Derek is just looking at him, so Stiles leans over and curls a hand around the werewolf’s neck. Derek doesn’t protest the kiss, mouth opening wide when Stiles pulls him closer.

“Thanks,” Stiles says when they part. “You were awesome tonight.”

Derek just keeps staring at him, one corner of his mouth quirking upward like he wants to smirk.

“Ugh, god,” Stiles grumbles, “just take the compliment for what it is. Go back to skulking around or whatever it is you do.”

Now Derek does smirk. But before he leaves, he reaches out to brush a knuckle over Stiles’s cheek, and that makes everything all right.

Alone and crises seemingly averted, Stiles finally remembers to retrieve his phone. He’s got some missed calls, voice mails, and texts. He checks Scott’s first, because he has a feeling he’s gonna need a cover story.

_dude had 2 run interference w/ ur dad. where r u?_

_told him you crashed at mine cuz u didnt feel well. what happened?_

Stiles takes a deep breath and starts texting back. _Long story; involves giant robots._

Scott replies almost immediately. _japanese?_

Stiles laughs for two whole minutes.

~End.


End file.
